His country seared its conscience through its gain,
And had not wisdom to behold its loss,
It held God partner in the hellish stain,
And saw Christ dying on a racial cross.
What unto it the shackled fellowman,
Whose plea was mockery, and whose groans were mirth?
Its boasted creed was: “he should rule who can
Make prey of highest heaven and dupe of earth.”
From out this mass of century-tutored wrong
A man stood God-like and his voice rang true.
His soul was sentry to the dallying throng,
His thought was watchword to the gallant few.
He saw not as his fellow beings saw;
He wo
A FANCY halts my feet at the way-side well.
It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish.
It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on.
It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread?
It is not to muse for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being.
I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it.
Ah, it is dry.
Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells.
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